Page 75 of Faking It
Seemingly unaffected, Tucker just keeps smiling, whistling a cheerful tune as he clips the carabineer from our harness to the safety line above us.
“Sorry about him,” I murmur when Tucker steps in to secure mine.
“It’s always the tough guys who have a problem with this,” he says under his breath and then steps back with a nod. “This is where I bow out. I’m heading down the ladder so you can figure this out for yourselves. I’ll see you at the bottom.”
“Fucking ridiculous,” Zane grumbles for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. I’m typically pretty tolerant, but right now, he’s irritating me.
“You ready?” I ask with a chill to my voice.
“Thrilled.” He steps toward the edge of the platform, his face a mask of fury I don’t quite understand.
“If we face each other, maybe we can press our hands together or clasp wrists or something so that we use our weight to balance ourselves off each other.”
“Great.”
I step one foot on the lower rope and use my hand on the rope above me to steady myself while I wait for him to do the same. He just stares at me with a look of complete abhorrence on his face that I can’t fathom.
“Put your hand out,” I say and extend my free hand, but he just glares at me and grits his teeth. “What’s your problem? You’re being a complete asshole and frankly I’m not too thrilled to be stuck up here with you either. So suck it up. Did you forget there are cameras down there documenting your every move? Maybe you should keep that in mind the next time you decide to be rude to Tucker.”
“What is it with you defending every man that comes our way except for me?”
“Defending every man? Common courtesy is more like it. Put your damn hand up, Zane because I want off this just as badly as you do.”
His sigh is strangled and there’s something about the sudden tensing of his entire body when he puts his full weight on the rope that makes it all click for me.
He’s not being an arrogant, prick. Not in the least.
He’s petrified and masking it with a major attitude.
I do believe that Zane Phillips is scared of heights.
“Give me your hand,” I say without breaking stride. “If we have one hand supporting each other, then it will make the next step that much easier.”
He closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds and says something to himself under his breath before reaching out and clasping his hand around my wrist and vice versa.
“Zane?”
“I’m fine. I’m okay,” he says, but his death grip on me says otherwise. His face is a light shade of gray and a line of sweat trails down his cheek from beneath his helmet.
“Zane?” I ask again, begging him to look at me.
“Leave it, Harlow.”
“Give me your other hand. Let’s step out on the rope.”
Another strangled cry of resistance despite his feet doing what I ask and his hand reaching out to my free one like a lifeline.
“Steady,” I murmur, the trembling of his hands more than noticeable.
“Can you just stop talking for a second?” he snaps at me, his eyes closing again as he emits a fortifying breath out of his mouth.
“Zane.”
“Stop saying my goddamn name. Christ.” But his eyes flash open and there’s a bit more color in his cheeks now.
“Are you afraid of heights?”
“What makes you say that?” His tone is flip but nerves waiver in his laugh. “I’m fine.”
